


So Long, and Thanks For All the Gender

by heliocentricity



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-03 19:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19470835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentricity/pseuds/heliocentricity
Summary: Existential dread sets in as Arthur is recovering from top surgery, so Ford helps him see the Universe from a different perspective.





	So Long, and Thanks For All the Gender

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: I don't go all-out with surgery-related descriptions (I mostly stick to post-surgical care routines), but be careful if that sort of thing makes you squeamish. :) Enjoy!

“Oh, come on, Arthur, don’t be like that! Someone who didn’t know you would think you’re from the spiral arm of the galaxy or something.” Ford Prefect raised his eyebrows to encourage a round of laughter that didn’t come. “Get it?” he prompted. “Because I’m afraid you’re spiraling into a depressive episode right now?” His smile snagged, like a fish on a hook, and faltered. “You know, I guess it really isn’t that funny now that I think about it.” The frown deepened. “Also, maybe Earth IS located in a spiral arm. Kind of frustrating how life works out like that sometimes, huh?”

Arthur Dent was not amused. He was sitting in his favorite bathrobe, propped up amid a fortress of pillows, with arms crossed irritably across his bandaged chest, trying to ignore the sweat that was crawling along his skin and etching miniature labyrinths into his back.

“Have top surgery during the summer,” they said. “It’ll be more efficient,” they said. Well, obviously, “they” had never lived in a flat as poorly ventilated as Arthur’s, or else they would have known what a living hell they were sending him into. Compression binders were painfully effective at holding in the heat — not to mention the sweat.

Arthur’s best friend and sort-of-boyfriend, (Can someone be your boyfriend if they’re not technically a boy? Ford said he didn’t mind the term, so it was probably alright in this case.) Ford Prefect, was camped out at his flat for the next couple of weeks. In theory, he was there to help Arthur lift anything heavier than a milk carton or to reach things that were above chest-level — and for someone as short as Arthur, that was practically everything. At least Arthur had had the foresight to move everything he needed for tea from inside the top-most cupboard to the low-lying counter, so all he had to ask of Ford when he wanted tea — which was most of the time — was to fill up a mug with hot water for him. A very difficult task to mess up.

In practice, Ford had spent the past half-week cuddling with a pillow instead of Arthur — The Betelgeusian was a slut for physical affection and was greatly perplexed by the possibility his constant hugs could somehow damage his friend. — and talking Arthur’s ear off in an attempt to distract him from his post-surgical discomfort.

“I can’t help that I’m uncomfortable,” Arthur retorted. “They’ve got these — “ He tried to gesture to them, then flinched. “ — these _drains_ snaking into my chest, and every time I move, I can feel them.”

“Do they hurt?” Ford asked, equal parts curious and concerned.

Arthur shook his head no. “But I can feel them,” he repeated, because really that made all the difference.

Ford smiled and gave his sadly-not-Arthur-pillow an affectionate squeeze. “At least this will all be worth it, right? I mean, you’re always talking about how much you hate having breasts.”

Even the word breasts made Arthur cringe, though he could never find a good alternative. In his eyes, there was no good way to refer to them. Breasts was far too formal and made Arthur think of slow-roasted chicken. Boobs sounded childish and like a half-baked insult. Tiddies — Arthur shuddered to even consider that term.

Ford had a point, though.

“I know, and I’m already happier without them,” Arthur conceded. “Once I get these drains out and this compression binder off, I’ll walk out of that door a new man!”

“That’s the spirit!” said Ford encouragingly.

Arthur deflated a little. “It’s just. . . “

Ford deflated with him, expecting but hoping to avoid his friend's inevitably dark turn. He began stroking the velvety pillow for lack of anything better to do with his hands.

“. . . it’s frustrating not being able to do anything now," lamented Arthur. "I move my arm one degree too far, and suddenly there’s this prickling sensation all along the rim of my binder. Then, I can’t tell if my arm is cold or wet where the IV went in, but that thing has been out for days, so really I shouldn’t be feeling anything abnormal there at all, although I can't shake this odd, chilly sensation. . . “

Arthur paused to draw in a breath then continued full throttle. “Regardless, it seems to me that there’s hardly anything I can do besides watch shows and read books — and even reading books is difficult because I have to angle the thing just right or else it will irritate my drains. Not to mention, my eyesight is still adjusting back to normal after the anesthesia messed it up, so that's another barrier I have to deal with. 

"But the drains are the absolute worst. They knock about whenever I stand up, and every little thing I do seems to irritate them. And then when the little bastards have to be emptied, it’s absolutely disgusting, because it’s like I’m leaking or something, just _oozing_ this off-red liquid, and I have to think to myself, ‘Dear god, that’s _inside_ me all the time.’ It’s enough to make anyone go just slightly mad.”

Ford had been nodding along to Arthur's entire monologue, and he kept on nodding, until he realized Arthur had fallen silent. Then, noticing his cue, he blinked several times in rapid succession and said, “Gee, that sounds really difficult.”

He had been working on expressing sympathy for the past few months, and Arthur appreciated the effort, even if the words sounded clumsy and artificial coming from his mouth. The concern was still there. It just manifested in ways Arthur was still learning to recognize. 

“But, hey,” Ford continued, his fingers drumming enthusiastically on the pillow. “You can’t do a lot for the next couple weeks, but think of all the things you’ll be capable of in three or four!” He grinned his signature electric smile, and although it usually filled Arthur’s stomach with lightning bugs, today it only depressed his mood further.

“That’s just the thing, though,” Arthur countered, afraid of disappointing his friend but determined to advertise the worst parts of himself anyway. “Being forced to sit around all day and do ‘nothing’ has made me ask myself. . . ‘Do I really do anything worthwhile normally?’" 

Ford started to nod enthusiastically, but Arthur pretended not to notice. 

"I mean, here I am, taking two weeks off of my job, not leaving the house, and drinking tea all day. Yet I'm somehow miserable. But why should I be? Isn’t this the ideal? Don’t I complain about my job when I’m there? I mean, in theory, this is exactly what I'm always looking for in a vacation: a break from the monotony of my working life. Taking a breather, staying with you, drinking tea.

"Yet here I am, living the theoretical dream, and I'm not satisfied. In fact, I feel restless and lethargic and. . . incomplete.

"So, what next? Aren’t I supposed to have something else, some _dream_ to look forward to when I’m not working minimum wage? What I mean to say is, isn’t there something I should be shooting for in life, some higher cause or bigger goal, something besides the next few days of relaxation? I mean, what’s the point of getting my breasts lopped off and sitting out for two weeks if at the end of those two weeks I’m not doing anything with my life anyway?" He gestured feebly at nothing in particular. "What if all I'm capable of doing is. . . just sitting around and. . . accomplishing nothing. . ?”

Arthur trailed off and started fiddling with the rim of his compression binder, unwilling to look Ford in the eyes, although he knew his friend was itching for his attention. Only once Ford said Arthur's name did he reluctantly tear his gaze like Velcro from the couch back to his boyfriend.

“Hm?” Arthur attempted to sound casual, like he hadn’t just outlined the existential questions that had dogged him tirelessly for the past forty-eight hours — probably longer, if he thought too hard about them.

“I’m a nihilist, so forgive me for coming off harsh, but I think this needs to be said.” Ford closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he said conclusively, “Everything you're worried about? It doesn't matter.”

Arthur scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Ford repeated. "None of it matters. All that jazz about the point of life? Well, it just so happens, there _is_ no point to life! Some existentialists like to spout crap like, 'There’s no purpose until you give it purpose.' But even that’s a lie.

"Let me tell you what life is, Arthur. Life is stupid. It’s convoluted and confusing and hilarious and terrifying, and no amount of wishful thinking or goal-oriented attitudes is going to change that. If you’re concerned about leaving a mark on the world or something else noble like that, then you need to stop worrying, because you already ARE leaving a mark on the world just by existing. No person comes into being that isn’t important in some microcosm of the Universe.”

He threw his hands up into the air, nearly upsetting his pillow, and pressed on. “And who cares if you don’t write the next greatest novel or star in a hit TV series? You’re already my best friend, and no amount of fame or fortune is going to change that. Besides, would a big accomplishment really make you a better person than you are now?” Ford shook his head decisively. “No. The way you’re currently living your life is just fine, Arthur, so long as it’s making YOU happy. You shouldn’t feel guilty for relaxing and drinking tea all day — you love tea! It’s one of your defining character traits!

"And just so you know, so far I've ignored the fact that you literally just had surgery a few days ago and shouldn't expect yourself to reach new heights of productivity anytime soon. You got in a knife fight, Arthur, and you lost, and somehow you're taking the opportunity to stress out over how productive you are? You have to realize how hilarious that is — especially in a Universe that's as pointless as I've just explained.

"Anyway, the only reason you should push yourself toward having some larger goal or dream is because _you_ want to accomplish it, not because you’re worried society is telling you it’s necessary to do it." Ford paused and pursed his lips. "Wait, does that make sense? That last phrase got a little too convoluted for me." He shook his head. "Whatever. I stand by what I said: Life is pointless!”

Arthur let the silence seep into him as he contemplated Ford's words. His nihilistic friend had a point. And even if he were wrong about everything and the Universe did have some hidden truth to it, then what could Arthur possibly do about it? His existential dread wouldn't disappear in that case. In fact, it would probably increase exponentially, along with his paranoia that something were happening in the Universe without his knowledge. In the short-term, it would certainly be much more enjoyable to think of things from Ford's point of view. Forget productivity. Still. . .

“If only there were some simple answer to life, the Universe, and everything,” Arthur mused, looking up at the ceiling so Ford would think he were deep in thought and not blinking back tears.

Ford laughed out loud at that. “Too bad that could never exist. A simple answer to life, the Universe, and everything? Whoever’s involved in discovering that would have to be part of the Universe’s longest and most convoluted prank.”

Arthur chuckled halfheartedly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He lapsed into silence and noticed Ford was staring at him again with his star-bright eyes. Arthur shot him a sidelong glance and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Ford held up his hands in surrender. “Nothing!” he said out of habit. Then, “I was just thinking that my speech about the inherent pointlessness of the Universe and the importance of interpersonal relations would be a lot more effective if I could have a demonstration at the end and sweep you into my arms or something.”

“And upset the drains?” Arthur asked in mock affront, lightly placing a hand on his chest for maximum melodrama.

Ford mirrored his pose. “And put them in such a state that you could actually feel them?”

They both dissolved into a fit of giggles, first Arthur and then Ford. And once Ford started to laugh, Arthur couldn’t stop. In fact, he couldn't see anything in his future besides more stomach-cramp-inducing merriment.

Ford Prefect had the most contagious laugh in the Universe. Unlike his smile, which was deeply unsettling and looked downright murderous if you didn’t know the guy, his laugh sounded so genuine no one could doubt its harmlessness. It was a little high and just a teensy bit shrill, but besides that, it rang like a bell, pure and sweet, and most people who heard it had to stifle reciprocal laughs of their own — even if, as in Arthur’s case, they were trying to remain as motionless as possible, so as to not upset any of the carefully arranged drains set in place by medical professionals a few days earlier.

Arthur held his compression binder in place as giggles wracked his torso, sending him into what felt like uncontrollable spasms of hilarity. Although he knew nothing was in danger of shifting too dramatically, the soft brush of bandages and tubes against his sensitive skin was too much. Yet the more Arthur considered how absurd he looked, surrounded by pillows and his out-of-this-world boyfriend, his favorite bathrobe the only barrier between his drains and the rest of the world, the funnier the situation seemed to him.

In between giggles, Arthur choked out, “Ford! — This is — ridiculous! — I don’t think — I should be laughing — this hard!”

In an attempt at retaliation, Arthur picked up the nearest pillow — one that had been sitting on his lap so he could more easily prop up his arms — and chucked it at Ford. Predictably, the throw was hardly a throw at all, as Arthur could not raise his arm above chest-level. Thus, the motion was all wrist, and the pillow hardly sailed through the air at all. In fact, it is more accurate to say that it was picked up and subsequently dropped by Arthur Dent. Luckily, the couch the two friends were sitting on was small, and they hadn't left much space between them, so the plush missile landed on its target, and Ford, not currently drunk but always acting like it, let the pillow flatten him, as though Arthur had chucked it with all the ferocity of a pro-sports player, until he was a mess of laughter, buried under Arthur’s pillow and the pillow he had been holding all day in place of Arthur.

The simple (and pathetic) motion made Arthur’s forearm ache where the drain was in place, but once he had gotten started, it felt impossible to stop. He disassembled his couch fortress pillow by pillow, throwing (though more accurately, dropping) them on top of Ford, who put up no fight and let Arthur bury him with a crooked grin on his crooked face.

Once Arthur had buried him completely and run out of pillows, Ford pretended to have fallen asleep, leaving Arthur to prod the pillow fort cautiously. After a couple minutes of Arthur poking and slowly disassembling his creation, Ford roared back to life and startled Arthur so badly, Arthur nearly lost his balance and fell onto the floor. It was a good thing Ford was there to catch him.

Okay, so maybe Ford’s laugh was just mostly harmless.

But the important thing was, in that moment, the possibility of not leaving a significant mark on the world didn't scare Arthur. Neither did the idea of not being productive or failing to live up to someone else's idea of his potential. None of that stressed him out, because all that mattered was the smile on his friend's face and the laughter bubbling out of his own mouth, filling the room with its brightness.

Perhaps Ford was right and the Universe had no meaning at all. But that didn't mean the people in it were pointless. Far from it. Rather, it seemed to Arthur that nothing was more important in the world than them. And if he could make it through one moment like this, just enjoying himself and not caring about the greater meaning of his existence, then he could surely make it through all the others that were to follow. He certainly had a good companion to lend a helping hand along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading my very trans drabble! I started writing it because I wanted to vocalize some of the anxieties I was experiencing after top surgery, which combined with my typical summertime existential dread to form a terrifying, new monster. I figured it could help me cope, projecting onto a character who in my heart is undeniably trans and could have gone through a similar experience. And I was right! I feel a lot better after writing this, and it was reassuring to know I had so many counterarguments to my own anxious worryings. But a question remains: Where's MY cute friend from Betelgeuse? >:(


End file.
